Sweet residue
by Elanor Cerin
Summary: "She had been lying wide awake in her bed for the better part of the last two hours, despite feeling tired to the bones." Olivia can't sleep. Set right before Amber 31422 - 3.05. Rated T for some swearing.


She concentrated hard, her eyes following the thin paint crack on the ceiling. She had been lying wide awake in her bed for the better part of the last two hours, despite feeling tired to the bones. The day had been as gruelling as any other day working in the Fringe Division. That day in particular had brought yet another amber alert – the third this month. The rush of adrenaline that came with hurrying to the event site, and not knowing what lay in waiting, was followed by yet another hormone spike when urgently trying to get everyone out of the office building in Hudson Av. So the day's bottom line was positive: no one got ambered, although Manhattan now had a new nicely quarantined area.

The crack ended and her concentration was broken for the second it took her to choose another something to occupy her mind with.

"Still here, and not planning to go anywhere anytime soon." His voice sounded from the entrance to her bedroom, amused, if slightly bored.

She covered her ears desperately and shut her eyes tightly, forcing her mind to think of sheep. Cute, fluffy sheep, jumping hurdles, one after the other. One, two, three, four...

She did eventually dose off, her mind lulled into sleep by the rhythmic count and the images in her mind's eye, but it was not lasting. When she woke up, she had only the notion of time elapsed, but she wasn't even sure if she had slept, let alone for how long. With a grunt of frustration, she realized it was still the middle of the night and propped herself on her elbow, reaching for the pills on the night stand.

"You know, those things _really_ aren't good for you. And it's not like they'll help anything." She could see him sitting on the chair by the window, the dim light that filtered through the window letting her see his mocking smile. She defiantly stared into his eyes, as she popped a couple of pills in her mouth and reached for the glass of water that helped wash it down.

"If you listen to me and accept who you truly are, I'll let you sleep, scout's honour! If you try to remember where you come from and the people in your life, I'll stop being your personal ghost."

Olivia huffed impatiently and pulled Frank's pillow over her head. "This is just a residue of the breakdown. This is normal", she told herself. "Breath and relax". She inhaled deeply and Frank's scent invaded her nostrils. She missed him and she was wishing more and more that she had told him about the vision right before he left. But at the time she had been too unsettled. That kiss, it had felt…

"Right."

She pressed the pillow closer to her face and ears, trying to block out the tormenting voice of Peter Bishop. Frank was her reality, her rock through the good and the bad.

Rachel and the baby had died, and in that impossible time, she had met Frank. He was the joy away from all the sadness. He supported her in everything. They had clicked in all the right ways. Everything worked so beautifully between them. She trusted him completely.

"Neglected to tell him you're going around kissing other men and liking it, though. You know why that was. Your conscious mind is telling you one story, but deep down, you know it's not the truth. I'm more than the long lost Secretary's son."

Exasperated, she said aloud – "How long for the fucking pills to work?" She threw the pillow to the side, inhaled deeply, calming herself, and said firmly - "This is my life. I am the daughter of Marilyn Dunham, the sister of most missed Rachel, the other half of Frank Stanton. I work for Fringe Division, and I am damned good at what I do. I am an Olympic champion and I won't let my mind defeat me, nervous breakdown or not!" And on and on she went, reciting her mantra aloud.

"Repeating it, won't make it true, Livia." He said it almost tenderly, a note of pity in his voice. He was sitting by her side on the bed now and he reached a hand out to gently brush the hair on her forehead. Her only response was to speak louder and more decisively.

He continued to caress her forehead, regardless. He sat up slightly closer to her, pressing up against her body, and then his hands were on each side of her face, and he was leaning on her. She continued to talk incessantly but her breathing was accelerating, her heart was racing, panic was going through her. His lips touched hers softly and sweetly and all she knew was that kiss.

It escalated. The kiss became demanding, she wanted more. Her tongue sought out his. Her hands departed off their own accord on an exploration of his shoulders and chest and back. She wanted to feel his skin on her hands and she wanted proximity. She began struggling with the comforter covering her and separating them. He lifted himself from the bed to help, but as a result they parted for the briefest second. She followed his movement, unwilling to break contact, but there was nothing, no-one was there.

She blinked confusedly. She was sitting up in bed. There was light coming in through the curtained window. It was day.


End file.
